The ideal view for daily writing, hour for hour, is the blank brick wall of a cold-storage warehouse. Failing this, a stretch of sky will do, cloudless if possible.

I am not belittling the brave pioneer men but the sunbonnet as well as the sombrero has helped to settle this glorious land of ours.

Christmas is not a season. It is a feeling.

There's no sauce for play like work.

Living the past is a dull and lonely business; looking back strains the neck muscles, causing you to bump into people not going your way.

Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.

A writer's working hours are his waking hours. He is working as long as he is conscious and frequently when he isn't.